Among the many huge caravansaries that of recent years have sprung up in
New York to provide luxurious quarters regardless of cost for those who
can afford to pay for the best, none could rival the Astruria in size
and magnificence. Occupying an entire block in the very heart of the
residential district, it took precedence over all the other apartment
hotels of the metropolis as the biggest and most splendidly appointed
hostelry of its kind in the world. It was, indeed, a small city in
itself. It was not necessary for its fortunate tenants to leave it
unless they were so minded. Everything for their comfort and pleasure
was to be had without taking the trouble to go out of doors. On the
ground floor were shops of all kinds, which catered only to the
Astruria's patrons. There were also on the premises a bank, a broker's
office, a hairdresser, and a postal-telegraph office. A special feature
was the garden court, containing over 30,000 square feet of open space,
and tastefully laid out with plants and flowers. Here fountains
splashed and an orchestra played while the patrons lounged on
comfortable rattan chairs or gossiped with their friends. Up on the
sixteenth floor was the cool roof garden, an exquisite bower of palms
and roses artificially painted by a famous French artist, with its
recherché restaurant, its picturesque _tziganes_, and its superb view of
all Manhattan Island.
The Astruria was the last word in expensive apartment hotel building.
Architects declared that it was as far as modern lavishness and
extravagance could go. Its interior arrangements were in keeping with
its external splendor. Its apartments were of noble dimensions, richly
decorated, and equipped with every device, new and old, that modern
science and builders' ingenuity could suggest. That the rents were on a
scale with the grandeur of the establishment goes without saying. Only
long purses could stand the strain. It was a favorite headquarters for
Westerners who had "struck it rich," wealthy bachelors, and successful
actors and opera singers who loved the limelight on and off the stage.
Sunday evening was usually exceedingly quiet at the Astruria. Most of
the tenants were out of town over the week-end, and as the restaurant
and roof garden were only slimly patronized, the elevators ran less
frequently, making less chatter and bustle in corridors and stairways.
Stillness reigned everywhere as if the sobering influence of the Sabbath
had invaded even this exclusive domain of the unholy rich. The uniformed
attendants, having nothing to do, yawned lazily in the deserted halls.
Some even indulged in surreptitious naps in corners, confident that they
would not be disturbed. Callers were so rare that when some one did
enter from the street, he was looked upon with suspicion.
It was shortly after seven o'clock the day following Mrs. Jeffries'
reception when a man came in by the main entrance from Broadway, and
approaching one of the hall boys, inquired for Mr. Robert Underwood.
The boy gave his interlocutor an impudent stare. There was something
about the caller's dress and manner which told him instinctively that he
was not dealing with a visitor whom he must treat respectfully. No one
divines a man's or woman's social status quicker or more unerringly than
a servant. The attendant saw at once that the man did not belong to the
class which paid social visits to tenants in the Astruria. He was rather
seedy-looking, his collar was not immaculate, his boots were thick and
clumsy, his clothes cheap and ill-fitting.
"Is Mr. Underwood in?" he demanded.
"Not home," replied the attendant insolently, after a pause. Like most
hall boys, he took a savage pleasure in saying that the tenants were
out.
The caller looked annoyed.
"He must be in," he said with a frown. "I have an appointment with him."
This was not strictly true, but the bluff had the desired effect.
"Got an appointment! Why didn't you say so at once?"
Reaching lazily over the telephone switchboard, and without rising from
his seat, he asked surlily:
"What's the name?"
"Mr. Bennington."
The boy took the transmitter and spoke into it:
"A party called to see Mr. Underwood."
There was a brief pause, as if the person upstairs was in doubt whether
to admit that he was home or not. Then came the answer. The boy looked
up.
"He says you should go up. Apartment 165. Take the elevator."
* * * * *
In his luxuriously appointed rooms on the fourteenth floor, Robert
Underwood sat before the fire puffing nervously at a strong cigar. All
around him was a litter of _objets d'art_, such as would have filled the
heart of any connoisseur with joy. Oil paintings in heavy gilt frames,
of every period and school, Rembrandts, Cuyps, Ruysdaels, Reynoldses,
Corots, Henners, some on easels, some resting on the floor; handsome
French bronzes, dainty china on Japanese teakwood tables, antique
furniture, gold-embroidered clerical vestments, hand-painted screens,
costly Oriental rugs, rare ceramics--all were confusedly jumbled
together. On a grand piano in a corner of the room stood two tall
cloisonné vases of almost inestimable value. On a desk close by were
piled miniatures and rare ivories. The walls were covered with
tapestries, armor, and trophies of arms. More like a museum than a
sitting room, it was the home of a man who made a business of art or
made of art a business.
Underwood stared moodily at the glowing logs in the open chimneyplace.
His face was pale and determined. After coming in from the restaurant he
had changed his tuxedo for the more comfortable house coat. Nothing
called him away that particular Sunday evening, and no one was likely to
disturb him. Ferris, his man-servant, had taken his usual Sunday off and
would not return until midnight. The apartment was still as the grave.
It was so high above the street that not a sound reached up from the
noisy Broadway below. Underwood liked the quiet so that he could think,
and he was thinking hard. On the flat desk at his elbow stood a dainty
_demi-tasse_ of black coffee--untasted. There were glasses and decanters
of whiskey and cordial, but the stimulants did not tempt him.
He wondered if Alicia would ignore his letter or if she would come to
him. Surely she could not be so heartless as to throw him over at such a
moment. Crushed in his left hand was a copy of the _New York Herald_
containing an elaborate account of the brilliant reception and musicale
given the previous evening at her home. With an exclamation of
impatience he rose from his seat, threw the paper from him, and began to
pace the floor.
Was this the end of everything? Had he reached the end of his rope? He
must pay the reckoning, if not to-day, to-morrow. As his eyes wandered
around the room and he took mental inventory of each costly object, he
experienced a sudden shock as he recalled the things that were missing.
How could he explain their absence? The art dealers were already
suspicious. They were not to be put off any longer with excuses. Any
moment they might insist either on the immediate return of their
property or on payment in full. He was in the position to do neither.
The articles had been sold and the money lost gambling. Curse the luck!
Everything had gone against him of late. The dealers would begin
criminal proceedings, disgrace and prison stripes would follow. There
was no way out of it. He had no one to whom he could turn in this
crisis.
And now even Alicia had deserted him. This was the last straw. While he
was still able to boast of the friendship and patronage of the
aristocratic Mrs. Howard Jeffries he could still hold his head high in
the world. No one would dare question his integrity, but now she had
abandoned him to his fate, people would begin to talk. There was no use
keeping up a hopeless fight--suicide was the only way out!
He stopped in front of a mirror, startled at what he saw there. It was
the face of a man not yet thirty, but apparently much older. The
features were drawn and haggard, and his dark hair was plentifully
streaked with gray. He looked like a man who had lived two lives in one.
To-night his face frightened him. His eyes had a fixed stare like those
of a man he had once seen in a madhouse. He wondered if men looked like
that when they were about to be executed. Was not his own hour close at
hand? He wondered why the clock was so noisy; it seemed to him that the
ticks were louder than usual. He started suddenly and looked around
fearfully. He thought he had heard a sound outside. He shuddered as he
glanced toward the little drawer on the right-hand side of his desk, in
which he knew there was a loaded revolver.
If Alicia would only relent escape might yet be possible. If he did not
hear from her it must be for to-night. One slight little pressure on the
trigger and all would be over.
Suddenly the bell of the telephone connecting the apartment with the
main hall downstairs rang violently. Interrupted thus abruptly in the
midst of his reflections, Underwood jumped forward, startled. His nerves
were so unstrung that he was ever apprehensive of danger. With a
tremulous hand, he took hold of the receiver and placed it to his ear.
As he listened, his already pallid face turned whiter and the lines
about his mouth tightened. He hesitated a moment before replying. Then,
with an effort, he said:
"Send him up."
Dropping the receiver, he began to walk nervously up and down the room.
The crisis had come sooner than he expected--exposure was at hand. This
man Bennington was the manager of the firm of dealers whose goods he
disposed of. He could not make restitution. Prosecution was inevitable.
Disgrace and prison would follow. He could not stand it; he would rather
kill himself. Trouble was very close at hand, that was certain. How
could he get out of it? Pacing the floor, he bit his lips till the blood
came.
There was a sharp ring at the front door. Underwood opened it. As he
recognized his visitor on the threshold, he exclaimed:
"Why, Bennington, this is a surprise!"
The manager entered awkwardly. He had the constrained air of a man who
has come on an unpleasant errand, but wants to be as amiable as the
circumstances will permit.
"You didn't expect me, did you?" he began.
Shutting the front door, Underwood led the way back into the sitting
room, and making an effort to control his nerves, said:
"Sit down, won't you?"
But Mr. Bennington merely bowed stiffly. It was evident that he did not
wish his call to be mistaken for a social visit.
"I haven't time, thank you. To be frank, my mission is rather a delicate
one, Mr. Underwood."
Underwood laughed nervously. Affecting to misinterpret the other's
meaning, he said:
"Yes, you're right. The art and antique business is a delicate business.
God knows it's a precarious one!" Reaching for the decanter, he added:
"Have a drink."
But Mr. Bennington refused to unbend. The proffer of refreshment did
not tempt him to swerve from the object of his mission. While Underwood
was talking, trying to gain time, his eyes were taking in the contents
of the apartment.
"Come, take a drink," urged Underwood again.
"No, thanks," replied Mr. Bennington curtly.
Suddenly he turned square around.
"Let's get down to business, Mr. Underwood," he exclaimed. "My firm
insists on the immediate return of their property." Pointing around the
room, he added: "Everything, do you understand?"
Underwood was standing in the shadow of the lamp so his visitor did not
notice that he had grown suddenly very white, and that his mouth
twitched painfully.
"Why, what's the trouble?" he stammered. "Haven't you done a lot of
business through me? Haven't I got prices for your people that they
would never have gotten?"
"Yes--we know all that," replied Mr. Bennington impatiently. "To be
frank, Mr. Underwood, we've received information that you've sold many
of the valuable articles entrusted to you for which you've made no
accounting at all."
"That's not true," exclaimed Underwood hotly. "I have accounted for
almost everything. The rest of the things are here. Of course, there may
be a few things----"
Taking a box of cigars from the desk, he offered it to his visitor.
"No, thanks," replied Bennington coldly, pushing back the proffered box.
Underwood was fast losing his self-control. Throwing away his cigar with
an angry exclamation, he began to walk up and down.
"I can account for everything if you give me time. You must give me
time. I'm hard pressed by my creditors. My expenses are enormous and
collections exceedingly difficult. I have a large amount of money
outstanding. After our pleasant business relations it seems absurd and
most unfair that your firm should take this stand with me." He halted
suddenly and faced Bennington. "Of course, I'm much obliged to you,
personally, for this friendly tip."
Bennington shrugged his shoulders.
"The warning may give you time either to raise the money or to get the
things back."
Underwood's dark eyes flashed with suppressed wrath, as he retorted:
"Of course, I can get them all back in time. Damn it, you fellows don't
know what it costs to run this kind of business successfully! One has to
spend a small fortune to keep up appearances. These society people won't
buy if they think you really need the money. I've had to give expensive
dinners and spend money like water even to get them to come here and
look at the things. You must give me time to make a settlement. I need
at least a month."
Bennington shook his head. There was a hard, uncompromising look in his
face as he replied caustically:
"They're coming for the things to-morrow. I thought it fair to let you
know. I can do no more."
Underwood stopped short.
"To-morrow," he echoed faintly.
"Yes," said Bennington grimly. "You might as well understand the
situation thoroughly. The game's up. The firm has been watching you for
some time. When you tried to sell these things to old Defries for
one-quarter their real value he instantly recognized where they came
from. He telephoned straight to our place. You've been shadowed by
detectives ever since. There's a man outside watching this place now."
"My God!" exclaimed Underwood. "Why are they hounding me like this?"
Approaching Bennington quickly, he grasped his hand.
"Bennington," he said earnestly, "you and I've always been on the
square. Can't you tell them it's all right? Can't you get them to give
me time?"
Before the manager could reply the telephone bell rang sharply.
Underwood started. An expression of fear came over his face. Perhaps the
firm had already sworn out a warrant for his arrest. He picked up the
receiver to answer the call.
"What name is that?" he demanded over the telephone. The name was
repeated and with a gesture of relief he exclaimed:
"Howard Jeffries!--what on earth does he want? I can't see him. Tell
him I'm----"
Bennington took his hat and turned to go:
"Well, I must be off."
"Don't go," exclaimed Underwood, as he hung up the receiver
mechanically. "It's only that infernal ass Howard Jeffries!"
"I must," said the manager. As he went toward the door he made a close
scrutiny of the walls as if searching for something that was not there.
Stopping short, he said:
"I don't see the Velasquez."
"No--no," stammered Underwood nervously. "It's out--out on probation.
Oh, it's all right. I can account for everything."
Mr. Bennington continued his inspection.
"I don't see the Gobelin tapestry," he said laconically.
"Oh, that's all right, too, if they'll only give me time," he cried
desperately. "Good God, you don't know what it means to me, Bennington!
The position I've made for myself will be swept away and----"
Mr. Bennington remained distant and unsympathetic and Underwood threw
himself into a chair with a gesture of disgust.
"Sometimes I think I don't care what happens," he exclaimed. "Things
haven't been going my way lately. I don't care a hang whether school
keeps or not. If they drive me to the wall I'll do something desperate.
I'll----"
A ring at the front door bell interrupted him.
"Who can that be?" he exclaimed startled. He looked closely at his
companion, as if trying to read in his face if he were deceiving him.
"Probably your friend of the telephone," suggested Bennington.
Underwood opened the door and Howard entered jauntily.
"Hello, fellers, how goes it?" was his jocular greeting.
He was plainly under the influence of liquor. When he left home that
evening he had sworn to Annie that he would not touch a drop, but by the
time he reached the Astruria his courage failed him. He rather feared
Underwood, and he felt the need of a stimulant to brace him up for the
"strike" he was about to make. The back door of a saloon was
conveniently open and while he was refreshing himself two other men he
knew dropped in. Before he knew it, half a dozen drinks had been
absorbed, and he had spent the whole of $5 which his wife had intrusted
to him out of her carefully hoarded savings. When he sobered up he would
realize that he had acted like a coward and a cur, but just now he was
feeling rather jolly. Addressing Underwood with impudent familiarity, he
went on:
"The d----d boy didn't seem to know if you were in or not, so I came up
anyhow." Glancing at Bennington, he added: "Sorry, if I'm butting in."
Underwood was not in the humor to be very gracious. Long ago young
Howard Jeffries had outgrown his usefulness as far as he was concerned.
He was at a loss to guess why he had come to see him uninvited, on this
particular Sunday night, too. It was with studied coldness, therefore,
that he said:
"Sit down--I'm glad to see you."
"You don't look it," grinned Howard, as he advanced further into the
room with shambling, uncertain steps.
Concealing his ill humor and promising himself to get rid of his
unwelcome visitor at the first opportunity, Underwood introduced the two
men.
"Mr. Bennington--Mr. Howard Jeffries, Jr."
Mr. Bennington had heard of the elder Jeffries' trouble with his
scapegrace son, and he eyed, with some interest, this young man who had
made such a fiasco of his career.
"Oh, I know Bennington," exclaimed Howard jovially. "I bought an
elephant's tusk at his place in the days when I was somebody." With mock
sadness he added, "I'm nobody now--couldn't even buy a collar button."
"Won't you sit down and stay awhile?" said Underwood sarcastically.
"If you don't mind, I'll have a drink first," replied Howard, making his
way to the desk and taking up the whiskey decanter.
Underwood did not conceal his annoyance, but his angry glances were
entirely lost on his new visitor, who was rapidly getting into a maudlin
condition. Addressing Bennington with familiarity, Howard went on:
"Say, do you remember that wonderful set of ivory chessmen my old man
bought?"
Bennington smiled and nodded.
"Yes, sir; I do, indeed. Ah, your father is a fine art critic!"
Howard burst into boisterous laughter.
"Art critic!" he exclaimed. "I should say he was. He's a born critic. He
can criticise any old thing--every old thing. I don't care what it is,
he can criticise it. 'When in doubt--criticise,' is nailed on father's
escutcheon." Bowing with mock courtesy to each he raised the glass to
his lips and said: "Here's how!"
Bennington laughed good humoredly, and turned to go.
"Well, good night, Mr. Jeffries. Good night, Mr. Underwood."
Underwood followed the manager to the door.
"Good night!" he said gloomily.